


YouView.com

by zombie_socks



Series: E-Love [5]
Category: Black Widow (Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Acrobat!Clint, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Eventual Happy Ending, Mentions of Cancer, Past Cancer, Past Injuries, Trust Issues, Youtuber AU, dancer!natasha, mentions of thoughts of suicide, some language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 18:17:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13687167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombie_socks/pseuds/zombie_socks
Summary: Clint Barton never thought that the little archery trick videos he started doing and posting on YouView.com over a year ago would ever turn into a source of income.Natasha Romanov teamed up with the band Tempo-Tossed to create KnifePointe as a way of getting to dance after her injury.And when their fans suggest a collaboration, not all the sparks that fly will be romantic ones.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because one story for Valentine's Day wasn't enough, have yet another addition to E-Love. <3
> 
> There are some dark themes in this story so be mindful of the tags and comment if you want further clarification on them.   
> Also, I'm not a YouTuber, a doctor, an aerial artist or ballerina, so most of this is coming from quick Google searches (if that because I needed to get this done for Valentine's Day and started a new job and moved - again - in there, so time was against me). 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!   
> \- Z-socks

Clint Barton never thought that the little archery trick videos he started doing and posting on YouView.com over a year ago would ever turn into a source of income. And yet the Internet couldn’t get enough of him shooting targets while performing carney tricks. He’d flip through the air, dangle from a trapeze, tangle up in aerial silks, all while making perfect bullseyes with arrows.

“Did you talk to AirSports yet?” his friend/business partner/part-time roommate, Kate Bishop called out.

It’d been her idea to make the videos into something more of a production rather than the compilation of trick shots he’d started out with. She had a great head for that kind of thing, the business end of it. She was also a damn good shot herself and often starred in the videos with him. Their tandem routines had even landed them a spot on Tony Stark’s list of Top Ten Internet Sensations.  

“Yeah, got us confirmed for ten AM on the twenty-eighth,” he replied. “I think they like us.”

“Let’s see, a niche company whose profit depends on people using their space for trapeze, silk, and other aerial work… they love us. That’s why I asked them to be a sponsor.”

“Good move.” Clint opened the fridge and frowned at the lack of anything in there. “When did we last go grocery shopping?”

“Last week,” Kate answered from the living area, her feet tucked up under her on Clint’s purple couch. The man had a serious problem when it came to decorating: if it wasn’t purple, he wasn’t interested. “But you only picked up frozen pizzas, some bread for sandwiches, deli meat that your dog ate before you got into it, and a bag of apples that got used for our William Tell bit.”

Clint hummed and closed the fridge. “Guess we’ll order in.” He picked up his phone, a landline that only worked about half the time. “You want pizza or tacos.”

“Surprise me,” Kate distractedly responded, typing away on her laptop.

“Tacos it is.” He dialed for MercMunchies, a place in Queens that had sponsored their video last year after the owner, Wade Wilson, wrote a comment about Clint’s work with a katana. They chatted, ate by-the-slice street vendor pizza, and even though the guy was _super_ weird, Clint found him kind of fun. Plus he made damn good chimichangas. He also was wicked good with katana blades.

Order placed, Clint grabbed his keys from the little paw-print shaped ceramic dish by the door, whistled for Lucky, and grabbed the mutt’s leash as the ball of tawny fur came rounding the corner from his usual spot in the kitchen.

“Be back in a bit, Kate,” he informed, snapping Lucky’s leash in place.

She waved in response, still engrossed in her laptop. Clint figured she was probably editing footage from their last shoot.

It’d been a hell of a number, starting with him doing a backflip from a standing position, firing an arrow mid-air. From there he shot off a few rounds, each one sinking into the center of the target, the last one landing next to Kate’s head, signaling her to take over. She shot back, landing bullseyes in rapid fire, giving Clint time to climb up the silks. He steadied himself upside down, suspended from his legs, and shot an arrow at a target behind then in front. Kate echoed the oscillating motion – thank God Peter Parker, their cinematographer, had ridiculous reflexes and great camera skills. Of course the fact that Kate provided state-of-the-art camera equipment and a slo-mo rig with her family’s inheritance helped a bit too – until the pair were all but shooting in tandem. Clint then flipped down from the silks, landing squarely on his feet, instantly ducking so Kate could fire her last arrow over his head. They ended with a “split an arrow” bit, something audiences couldn’t seem to get enough of. Clint shot first, a cheap arrow with a shaft designed to break from the impact of Kate’s followed standard arrow going through it. It was a neat bit.

Kate would then take the footage from Peter, add music from her friend/maybe girlfriend – Clint wasn’t sure and was a little afraid to ask either one of them since it always made them both act weird when it was suggested, even as a joke – America Chavez. Girl could sing, though. Clint gave her that for sure.

MercMunchies was too far of a walk away from Clint’s building but Lucky did well in cabs, provided Clint could find a driver okay with having a dog ride in the back. It usually took a few tries so Lucky got his walk in by the time Clint found a ride. Upon telling the driver the address for Wade’s place, the driver laughed and said he knew the guy personally. He launched into some story about how Wade gave him advice on how to pursue the woman he’d fallen for, but Clint only half listened. He was too busy going over an idea for a triple arrow split.

Clint’s phone pinged with a message from Kate including a link to a YouView video. He opened it, waited for the ad to play, and was immediately struck by simultaneously the coolest shit and most gorgeous woman he’d ever seen.

A lone ballerina stood in moody lighting, dressed in a black leotard and tulle skirt. Either chalk dust or a fog machine made the atmosphere smoky and mysterious as something like 40s Big Band remixed with Dark Alt-Rock began to play.

The account was named KnifePointe and Clint could definitely see why. The woman – a strikingly beautiful redhead with a short yet lithe stature – rose up en pointe in a pair of black ballet toe shoes, and danced with precision and practiced meticulousness. She swayed and leapt, bent deeply and twirled around with undeniable grace. And just when the dance was forming shape, she held her position and carefully pulled a blade from the guard strapped to her arm. In an elegant arabesque she whipped the knife towards a target, striking the center.

She pulled in and pirouetted while slipping a knife from the elastic of her skirt. She stopped, bent backwards and extended her leg forwards, tossing the knife into a target behind her. It didn’t hit exactly center, but the middle dot was marred nonetheless.

More spins, each picking up speed. She lifted her arms, tracing over one with the opposite hand until she came to the sharp sticks crossed in the bun in her hair. She tossed one mid-spin and it hit the same target as her first blade. She threw the second one and it joined her other knife.

She was breathtaking.

Kate sent another message. [Would you want to team up with her?]

Clint sent an answering raised eyebrow emoji.

Kate replied, [we’ve had multiple people comment and suggest a collaboration vid. I’m thinking of messaging her. Yay or Nay?]

Clint had never texted back quicker in his entire life. [YES!]


	2. Chapter 2

Natasha stretched out, bending over her leg, feeling the tug in familiar muscles. It’d been a good performance. Sam and Steve both had silently cheered from behind the camera as she’d nailed a toss while on the way down into the splits. It had been the move she’d struggled with the most in this routine, but the musical cue all but demanded something drastic.

“Good show, Nat,” James “Bucky” Barnes congratulated, clapping her on the back with his good arm. When she’d first met the band at a YouView convention two years ago, she wasn’t sure how a drummer played his instrument with only one arm. (Turns out the answer is “really well.”) She’d liked their sound, a fusion of swing and jazz with modern beats and instruments. Her channel wasn’t very popular at the time – not much of an audience for knife throwing tricks – and it wasn’t until she heard the music of Tempo-Tossed that she had the idea of adding her ballet background. Cards were exchanged, a collaboration set up, and since then Nat had danced to the band’s hits and new releases while throwing knives. Occasionally she’d partner up with Steve or Bucky and throw in some legitimate swing dancing, but they were pretty insistent that it was her channel and she should star.

“We still need you to do the Stark Tech sponsor read for the end,” Steve added, taking Bucky’s hand in his.

Nat groaned but stood up, skirt falling in around her. “Can’t we just splice in footage from last time?”

Sam joined them, shaking his head at her question. “C’mon, the camera’s still set up. It’ll be five minutes, maybe less.”

“He does provide all of our equipment,” Steve pointed out.

“Equipment we won by being number one on his Top Ten Internet Sensations list,” Bucky pointed out. He wasn’t a fan of Stark. Something about a comment he’d made to Steve once.

“Still, it’s part of the deal,” Sam added.

“Okay, okay.” Nat ran her fingers through her hair, hoping the sweat from her performance wasn’t too visible. She stood in front of the camera, waited for Sam to focus her in, and then rattled out the “thanks for watching, please subscribe, shout out to Tempo-Tossed and Stark Tech” bit.

“Cool,” Sam concluded. “We’ll pack up. Go take a shower.”  

It wasn’t a hard order to obey; her muscles were in need of warm water. She was just glad that they’d filmed in Bucky and Steve’s studio loft instead of the local community theater, meant a shower was close and dinner and movies via NetStream were not far either.

By the time she came out in leggings and a sweatshirt that used to be Bucky’s, maybe Steve’s, the dark backdrop curtains had been pulled down, the camera and lighting equipment packed up, and the targets with her knives put away. Steve was ordering food while Bucky had undoubtedly gone to get beers from the Irish pub around the corner. Sam was cueing up the next episode of _Star Rangers_ , an 80s sci-fi-ish, action-driven TV show that perfectly personified hyper-masculinity. It made her roll her eyes but she liked tearing it apart with the guys: poking fun at the cheesy action sequences, commenting on the horrible costumes, shipping the two male leads because _c’mon, they’re so gay_ _for each other_. And there _was_ Amanda Free, the obligatory, sexy one (1) female character that kicked ass, occasionally got decent character development, and, for the 80s, wasn’t written as horribly sexist as she could’ve been. Nat liked her enough to watch the show.

The food arrived shortly after Bucky had returned with booze and the group settled in for episode nine of season three. The credits had barely completed before Steve and Bucky were curled up, sharing their portion of breadsticks and cheese sauce.

Nat was glad to see them happy. It’d taken them ages to figure out they were in love with each other as something other than childhood friends. And after Steve’s breakup with his long-time girlfriend, Peggy, and his coming out as bi, well, the pieces slowly fell into place.

Sam started texting about halfway through the episode, no doubt Riley had a spare five minutes from running the country’s defenses. At least, that’s what Nat thought. He could be a difficult person to get a straight answer from.

With no one really riffing the show with her, Nat was getting ready to call it an early night and grab a cab to her place in SoHo, when her phone went off. She didn’t recognize the number and was tempted to let it go to voicemail, but answered it on a whim, or maybe as some petty stab at the others that yes, she had a life too.

“Hello?”

“Is this Natasha Romanov?” a female voice asked. She sounded professional despite the young tone.

“It is. Who’s calling?” She stood and took the phone call to the kitchen.

“My name is Kate Bishop, I work with Clint Barton for Arrow-batics. We’re a YouView channel.”

“Oh.” Nat hadn’t heard of them, which concerned her since this woman had somehow found her number.

“We were wondering if you’d be interested in a collaboration video. Our viewers have recommended your channel and suggested on multiple occasions that we team up.”

“Um, I’m not sure. I’ll have to talk to my partners.”

“Of course. I can leave my number and email address and if you agree we can arrange a meeting to discuss details.”

“Sounds good. Let me grab a pen.” Nat snatched the closest thing she could find: Steve’s drawing pencils and sketchpad, and scribbled down the information Kate gave her on the inside cover of the sketchbook.

“We look forward to hearing from you.”

Nat wasn’t sure if she said goodbye as her brain was already buzzing with questions. The first one was easy enough to answer.

“Hey, go to YouView real quick,” she ordered.

Steve and Bucky looked up at her, but Sam paused the show and switched over from the NetStream app to YouView.

“What are we looking for, Nat?” Bucky asked as Sam pulled up the search menu.

“Arrow-batics.”

“New sponsor?”

“Collaboration. Maybe.”

Sam typed it in, hit search, and selected the first result. As the video played, the room fell silent in awe at the two archers firing arrows, tumbling around. It was exactly as the channel claimed: arrow-batics.

“They’re awesome,” Sam praised.

“He’s hot,” Bucky commented, earning a playful swat from Steve before he agreed.

Nat stood there, eyes glued to the screen as she took in the performance. He was stunning, both in his craft and, well…

She breathed out, “Wow.”


	3. Chapter 3

Clint Barton had never been good at sitting still unless there was something to do with his hands. As a kid in school he used to get in trouble for tapping his pencil or clicking his pen. During the summers spent with the circus, the trapeze instructor’s aged mother taught him how to whittle so he’d pay better attention to lessons. And during the army, cleaning weaponry and reloading ammo were among his favorite fidget pacifiers.

“Will you relax?” Kate commented, adding a sugar packet to her coffee. She’d arranged a meeting with the KnifePointe people, and Clint had never been good at first impressions or meeting people in general. (Ever since his divorce over four year ago, dating had been a miserable nightmare.) He’d already constructed a tower out of creamers and coffee stirrers and had moved on to twisting napkins into pieces much to the dismay of the little café’s busboy who kept glaring at the mess Clint was making.

“The last time I saw you this fidgety Phil was in surgery.” Kate took a sip of coffee while Clint reached for another napkin. “How is his knee anyway?”

“It’s doing good.” Clint pulled a corner off of the napkin but let the rest of it sit for a moment. “He started dating his physical therapist.”

“He would.” She sipped some more coffee. “You think he’ll get remarried?”

Clint shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s never talked about it and I think it’d be hard to find someone to live up to what he had with Audrey, but…” he shrugged again. “She makes him happy though, the woman he’s dating”

“What’s her name?”

“April? June? I don’t know, it was some month, Maybe May?” He picked up his black coffee and took a swig. “Maybe that was her last name.”

“I take it you haven’t met her yet.”

“I think he’s bringing her to our St. Patrick’s Day thing.” He thought about for a second. “Huh? That’s only, what, two months away?”

“There about.” She checked her phone and frowned. Their potential collaborators were almost ten minutes late.

“Think they stood us up?” Clint asked, going back to pulling the paper napkin into pieces.

“I’ll give them another five minutes. You know New York traffic.”

Clint hummed in agreement and drank another swig from his cup of joe. “When does America leave for Argentina?”

“Next Thursday.” Kate looked out the window, something passing in her eyes that the action of looking away made unclear. Most likely that was her intention.

“You should take a few days and hang with her before she leaves,” Clint offered. “I can do a solo video for that week’s release.”

“There’s a lot to do other than filming, Clint. You’d need to edit and organize everything, pay Peter, and-”

“Kate.” He reached for her hand and gave it a light squeeze. “Spend some time with her before she leaves. I can handle it; I promise.”

“Sorry we’re late,” a small voice said from behind Kate’s shoulder.

“Mr. Ninety Pounds Soaking Wet here damn near had an asthma attack,” the accompanying redhead explained, shooting her companion – a scrawny blond man with pale blue eyes and tattoos up his thin arms – a look that was too playful to hold any real hostility.

“You’re exaggerating, Nat.”

“Nat” turned to look at Clint and Kate. “Steve sat next to a smoker on the subway and the second-hand from the man’s clothes almost sent him into full fledge wheeze mode.”

“Are you okay?” Kate asked concerned.

“I’m _fine,_ ” Steve answered. He took off his coat and hung it over the back of the chair across from Kate. “I had my inhaler. We switched trains.” His eyes went apologetic. “That’s why we’re late.”

“No worries, man,” Clint dismissed. “I’m sensitive to the smell too since I quit.”

“How long ago?” Steve inquired.

“Eight years.” Clint moved them off the subject with, “You want coffee? It’s pretty good here.“

Nat seemed to notice the sudden switch but Steve ignored it, grabbing his wallet to which Kate insisted she pay as part of a business expense. She took Nat’s order and followed Steve up to the counter as he hadn’t yet decided what he wanted.

Nat sat down across from Clint and it took everything in his power not to just stare. She was breathtaking, red hair and perfect curves, bright green intelligent eyes; but it was her smile, a gentle thing that had yet to look genuine but danced temptingly close, as if she were wearing a paper thin mask.

Maybe he wasn’t the only one poorly versed in first impressions and meeting people in general

“What made you quit?” she asked, eyes falling onto the mess of creamers and napkins from Clint’s fidgeting earlier. It’d been a long time since he’d felt this scrutinized and it made for a one-two punch when coupled with her question.

It was a part of him that he hated going in depth about because of how it tied into several sore spots in his past. The first being that he started smoking as a teen, influenced by the carnival troop that took in him and his brother, Barney, after their folks passed. He was fourteen going on fifteen when he picked up the habit mostly out of spite for Barney leaving him. It carried over into the army and it wasn’t until his check-up at the VA where they found the lesions in his lung did he think about quitting.

He met Bobbi during that visit and, if he was being honest, he quit for her more than himself. As a medical researcher, she hounded him about the harmful effects of smoking as if he hadn’t had surgery, as if he hadn’t flirted with her every chemo treatment. After the divorce he thought about taking it back up but found he couldn’t stand the smell and the memories of treatment and everything that followed that now came with it.

The question was still hanging in the air so Clint answered with, “Couple of things.” He swept up the paper napkin scraps and crumpled them into another intact napkin.

“I’m sorry.”

He looked up and found that her expression at least seemed more honest than her smile.

“I shouldn’t have asked,” she added.

He shrugged it off but changed topics. “Is Steve your manager?”

“Kind of. Not really.”

He raised a brow.

“He represents the band that does all the music for my vids. We partnered up a few years ago so all decisions are made with both parties involved. It keeps us balanced and from doing something that might hurt either brand.”

“Smart.”

Nat bobbed a nonchalant shoulder. “We’ve both been screwed in the past.”

“I hope that’s a reference to business,” Steve started, slipping into his seat, coffee in hand, “because I don’t think we’ve been gone long enough for you to have gotten into personal relationship issues.”

Nat rolled her eyes, shoving the small blond good-naturedly.

Kate placed Natasha’s coffee in front of her and took her seat across from Steve. “Trust me, if they’d gotten to personal relationship issues, Ms. Romanov would be out the door.”

“Hey now,” Clint protested. “I’m divorced. That makes dating harder.”

Nat raised a brow, sipped her coffee.

Clint pointed at Kate accusingly. “ _She’s_ the real mess. You want personal relationship issues, talk to her.”

Kate swatted his hand away in the same motion of picking up her coffee. “Let’s talk business.”

The air took on that stiffening vibe that always seemed to come from the uttering of those words. Playful banter and the like were now shoved outside of the circle the group encompassed.

Natasha shared a look with Steve before asking, “How long have you been a YouViewer?”

“We started our channel about two years ago,” Kate answered. “Clint had a separate channel before that but it was…” she paused, thinking of the right word.

“Sad,” Clint filled in for her. “I really didn’t know what I was doing.” He took a sip of java, silently appreciating the sweet nectar. “Landed me a job doing private lessons for Hamilton Academy upstate, though. S’where I met Kate.”

“Lessons?” Steve inquired.

“Archery.”

Kate added, “The first channel was a mess of archery tips and tricks rolled up in other videos about rifles and swords and parkour. There wasn’t much focus. So we talked, decided to combine Clint’s background in acrobatics with his proficiency in archery. It became more of a production as time went on.”

“That’s similar to what our group did with Natasha.” Steve added an another packet of sugar to his coffee. “Where _does_ one get a background in acrobatics these days?”

Clint laughed. “It’s a long story but basically my brother and me would head out to Vegas during the summers as teens, looking for work. We got a somewhat steady gig helping out one of the circus shows out there. Not the best pay, but the work was never dull. I took an interest in the aerial arts side of it first, then got into archery when the Swordsman saw me tossing darts one night in the on-site bar.”

“So why YouView, why not the Olympics?” Natasha questioned.

Clint shrugged. “Did a stint in the army. Sniper. But they had me use a gun, not a bow. I lost a lot of training. And when I got out I wasn’t… in the best health.”

Steve nodded knowingly although Clint doubted he’d been enlisted. Probably knew a guy.

“What about you?” Clint indicated Natasha, pointing a finger while the rest stayed curled around the top of his Venti black coffee.

She seemed to consider the question, perhaps deciding how to answer, maybe if to answer at all. “I’m originally from Russia. I trained with the Bolshoi from a young age. When my parents died, a business contact of my father’s here in New York took me in. I danced with the New York Met for four years until I injured my ankle. I finished the season anyway, which permanently damaged it.” She stared at her drink; foam swirled in the mocha pool. “I had surgery, fixed the damage, but,” her eyes flicked to Clint, “I’d lost a lot of training.”

“She did a few instructional videos, taught classes at the local ballet studios,” Steve supplied. “But it wasn’t until we met at a YouView conference that the channel really took off.”

“And speaking of taking off,” Kate interjected, “I think that a collaboration would be a logical next step for both of us.” She pulled out her phone, cued up to their latest vid, and scrolled to the comments section. “Fans are all but begging for a team up. And I think arrows and knives and ballet and aerial arts would be a fantastic mix.” She looked up at Steve. “And of course, you could do the music.”

“How would we split proceeds?” Nat asked.

“We’d post the video on both channels and cross promote. The hits on your video go to you, ours to us. Agreements with sponsors and ad revenue are then unaffected.”

Nat hummed. “We might still have to clear it with Tony.”

Steve nodded. “I don’t see why he wouldn’t agree.” He looked at Kate. “Would your sponsors be okay with this?”

Clint barked a laugh. “Out sponsor is currently a man who owns a taco shack in Queens and may or may not be a mercenary who loves the sound of his own voice too much. “

Steve looked intrigued if not a little wary. Natasha just sipped her coffee.

“We could use our space we reserve weekly for shoots,” Kate continued. “Rehearsals would need to be coordinated. I can set up a calendar.”

Nat put up a hand. “Hold on a second. What would we be doing?”

“What do you mean?” Kate asked, brows raised.

“Am I dancing around you flipping over me? How do knives and arrows and targets come into play? Is it a dance? A compilation of our skills?”

“Uh…” Clint turned to Kate who shrugged. “Guess we’d have to figure that out.”

Kate tapped her fingers against the table, face somewhat contorted with consternation. But a plan was forming; Clint could see it behind her eyes. “Well looks like we’ll need a brainstorming session. Natasha, would you be okay stopping by Clint’s place some time this week?” She indicated Steve. “The band is welcome too. More minds the merrier.”

“Sure,” Steve answered. Nat glanced over at him, eyes narrowed.

“We’ll discuss it with our sponsor first,” she settled.

“Of course.” Kate’s phone went off and she frowned at the screen when she looked at it. “I have another… engagement.” She stood, putting on her coat.

“Everything okay, Katie?” Clint asked, concern making its way into his voice.

“Yeah it’s just… Dad.”

Clint frowned. “Want me to come with?”

She waved him off. “No. Just make sure Nat and Steve here have a good time.” And she was gone.

Clint turned back to the pair and offered them an apologetic look. “When the banker says jump…, am I right?”

Steve nodded. He looked at Nat then said, “We’d probably better get going. Bucky wanted to work on the new song, something about the lyrics being too boy band.”

“Maybe that’s ‘cause you’re all boys.”

Steve pulled a face and stood. “I’m going to get him and Sam a coffee to go. Clint,” he stuck out his hand, “it was nice meeting you and I hope we get to work together.”

“Same here, Steve,” Clint replied, taking Steve’s hand and shaking it.

As Steve departed, it left him alone with Natasha once more. He sipped the last of his coffee, debated about getting another, when Nat spoke.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not sure this is going to work.”

Clint tried to keep the alarm off his face. “How come?”

“I think we’re too… same market.”

“Same market?”

“Yeah. Look, when ClassiCola makes a good commercial does Fizzi try to team up with them? No, they remain competition because it generates more profit. If we let the fans pressure us into teaming up, I think we run the risk of them expecting our channels to converge.”

“And if that happens, you’d get my fans and I’d get yours.”

“And what about fans of both channels, the ones telling us to team up? They’d only have to subscribe and watch one channel. Revenue down.” She leaned in. “And I don’t know about you, but this is my job. I have hospital bills I’m still paying, debt that’s been accumulating interest, rent. I need my revenue and I need my viewers.”

“I’m not trying to merge our channels,” Clint defended. “It’s a publicity exchange.”

“And If I say no?”

“Then we don’t do it. I’m not going to force you into it.”

She stared at him, examining him for something. She must’ve found it because she bowed her head, played with the lid on her coffee cup. “I’m sorry.” She grabbed her cup but didn’t drink any of it. “Before I teamed up with Steve, I…” she shook her head. “Forget it. I’ll consider our team up and ask our sponsor if it’s okay with him.” She extended her hand across the table. “It was nice meeting you.”

He shook her hand. “Yeah, um, you have Kate’s contact info, right?”

She nodded.

“Cool. We’ll wait to hear from you, I guess.”

He watched her through the coffee shop window as she met up with Steve and left. Once she was gone, he let his head fall onto the table. This venture, it seemed was going to be interesting…

He decided on that extra coffee and got up to order it to go.


	4. Chapter 4

[Are you on your way?] read Nat’s text. She hit send and pretended to ignore how little distance there was between her current position and the front of Clint Barton’s building.

[Got tied up at the VA show] came the reply.

Nat rolled her eyes.

[We’ll be there in an hour.] He added [Sorry.] and a gif of an animated pouting dog.

Nat was left at a loss of what to do next. She was supposed to meet Clint and Kate in two minutes but hated the idea of doing so without Bucky or Steve or Sam to back her up.

It wasn’t that she was incapable of taking care of herself should a meeting with near strangers go a Crime Show Drama: Insert Location Here direction. In fact she preferred that scenario to the reality of talking to afore mentioned near strangers for an hour without a buffer. Actual conversation had never been her forte. Polite talk, small talk, chatter, those she could handle seeing as they had no demand for depth and therefore history. She did wonderfully at parties, even found ways of connecting other people and getting them to converse so she could duck out. But there was no ducking out of a business meeting and now no one to pick up the ball if she started getting exhausted or overwhelmed with it.

She took the elevator up to the floor Kate had texted her.

She knew she was making it worse in her head. Clint and Kate had been perfectly polite in the café. But the whole thing had her on edge. A collaboration with musicians was one thing. A team up with someone who did a similar gig to hers was another.

And it hadn’t ended well last time.

She was at the door now. Sucking it up she knocked.

She heard a dog start to bark followed by footsteps approaching and Clint’s voice telling the dog, Lucky, to settle. He opened the door, gentle smile on his face. However, the smile faded a bit when he caught sight of only Natasha standing there. “Where’s the band?”

Nat bobbed a shoulder. “They got caught up at a gig. They’ll be here in about an hour.”

“Oh. Well, come in.” He opened the door wider for her, offered to take her coat.

“Where’s Kate?” Nat asked, handing him her jacket and handbag.

“She’s… still dealing with family shit.”

It struck her then. “It’s just us?”

“Seems like.” Clint tucked his hands in her pants pockets. “Which isn’t great productivity wise seeing as I’m typically useless in the choreography department.”

“I thought we were just brainstorming.”

He shrugged. “That’s kinda Kate’s thing too.” Lucky came over to rest against Clint’s leg. He crouched to pet the mutt, rubbing his tawny ears. It looked like an old injury, but Nat could see the animal had only one eye. “I just shoot arrows.”

“Surely you’re more involved than that.”

Clint huffed a laugh. “Yeah, okay. But she really is the brains of the operation. Better at the money and marketing side to things.” He scratched Lucky’s belly when the dog rolled over. “I did land us our sponsor, though, and tend to deal with him more. Wade’s kinda… out there.” He looked up. “Not that Kate can’t handle that. She just doesn’t like to.”

Nat nodded, taking a seat at one of the tall bar stools that sat by the opposing half wall that separated the living area from the kitchen. Clint’s apartment was actually a two-story loft with exposed brick walls, large windows, and a purple color scheme that stretched throughout. Stairs ascended into what she could just make out to be the bedroom with a bathroom tucked underneath the staircase.

Shelves with books and vinyl records framed the moderately sized TV; a couch that looked second-hand but in good shape sat across from it. A large, decorative bow and quiver acted as wall art above the couch. Several walls had framed targets each sporting impressively tight clusters of holes. One target even had what appeared to be a single bullseye but was _just_ too wide to only be one shot.

“I made some coffee. Want some?” Clint asked.

“Decaf?”

Clint reacted with a bewildered look. “Uh. No. Um… sorry.”

“I’ll have water then.”

“Sure.” He pulled a jug of purified water from the dove grey fridge and poured her a glass before emptying the pot of coffee into a mug that was in the shape of a quiver.

“Nice mug.”

He grinned although it didn’t meet his eyes. “Yeah. It was a gift from my ex. ‘Bout the only thing I kept after the divorce.” He motioned for the living area and she followed his lead, taking a seat on the far side of the mauve couch. She looked for a coaster on the coffee table but found none. A quick scan of the side table revealed a target-themed set next to a framed photograph. She grabbed one, set her glass down, and turned to pick up the framed photo. “Are these your parents?”

Clint’s brows raised in almost alarm before he glanced at the photo of a happy couple sitting at what appeared to be some outdoor venue, hands clasped in each other’s. “No that’s Phil. He’s…army buddy, slash best friend, big brother, you name it.” He looked at his mug while adding, “Father figure.”

Natasha offered a small smile. “Some family you choose, right?”

“Yeah.” He set his coffee down and took the photo from her. “His wife, Audrey, passed a few year ago. Drunk driver.”

“I’m sorry,” Nat replied, surprised to feel genuine about it. Typically this was where she checked out of most conversations. This was the history and depth she tried to avoid.

“I should call him. It’s been a bit since we talked.” He handed the photo back and she replaced it in its spot.

Silence crept over them. A clock on one of the shelves ticked noisily away as they both sipped their drinks.

It was maddening.

“You like fro-yo?” he piped up.

She shrugged. “As much as the next person. Why?”

“There’s this really good fro-yo vendor in the dog park about two blocks from here. Lucky needs some exercise anyway. And maybe the change of setting will give us something to, you know, brainstorm.”

 _Well it would be a relief from the infuriating silence so sure._ “Sounds like a good idea.”

Clint stood and snatched Lucky’s leash from the kitchen counter, conjuring the animal who danced and jumped excitedly around his owner. Clint laughed and petted the dog, snapping the leash onto his collar. Clint snagged his wallet and coat, offering Natasha hers before grabbing a tennis ball from a basket on the high shelf in the entry closet. Lucky barked once, excited at the green orb in his owner’s hand.

Once down on the sidewalk, Natasha began to regret the decision to leave. It was February in New York and freaking freezing. Windy too. And they were going to get fro-yo?

She watched Lucky sniff at trees and hydrants, picking his spots to mark. He ran into a mailbox at one point while sniffing the ground. “Careful, Luck,” Clint cautioned. He turned to Nat. “The one eye thing still messes with his depth of field. He’s gotten way better at it, can sense stuff better. But he’ll miss the mark sometimes when he’s distracted.” He squatted to pet the dog. “Ain’t that right boy?” Lucky panted happily in response. Satisfied there was no visible damage, they continued on.

“How long have you had him?” Nat asked, tucking her arms in closer around her chest. God, it was cold.

“A few years. I pulled him from a traffic accident, took him to the vet. They had to operate.” He motioned toward the dog. “He limps a bit and well, the eye. But he healed pretty good.”

“Guess he _is_ pretty lucky.”

Clint snorted at the dry humor. They walked for a bit more before he wondered, “How about you? Any pets?”

Natasha shook her head but paused the motion halfway through. “Well, there is a stray cat I feed on the somewhat regular.”

“You pet him?”

“Her. And yes. Sometimes.”

“I count that.” A beat then, “You name her?”

But Nat didn’t get to answer.

Behind them they heard shouting, a scream as a man nearly knocked down a woman as he shoved past. He had a bag in his hand; a few errant dollar bills few out of its unsecured top.

“Stop that man,” a voice yelled from further back as the owner came into view. A cop.

Clint looked at the tennis ball in his hand. He tossed it up in the air, caught it, and in a pitch envious of any baseball team, tossed the ball right at the running man’s head.

It hit squarely, forcing the man to stumble at the impact, slowing him down. But Nat wasn’t taking any chances. She ran the few strides to put her in line with crook and sent a beautiful kick to his face, spun, and launched her other leg into his gut.

The man dropped to the concrete directly on his ass, completing the fall onto his back, head on the sidewalk, eyes dazed.

Clint joined her, standing by her side. Lucky growled, teeth filling the man’s vision.

The cop huffed the last few steps to intercept the fallen criminal, dropping to his knees, handcuffs at the ready. Rights recited, charges laid out, bag of money taken for evidence. And then, “Thanks, you two.” And then. “You’ll need to come down to the station, make a statement.”

Clint exchanged a look with Natasha. “Looks like fro-yo will have to wait.”


	5. Chapter 5

Despite it having been years, police stations still made Clint feel nervous. Between a childhood of trailing behind his beat to shit mother to bail his father out _again,_ and his own spotty juvenile record, he was far from a newcomer to the environment. One glance at Natasha interestingly seemed to suggest she wasn’t entirely uncomfortable with the setting either.

“Ever been in a precinct before?” he asked casually.

Natasha shrugged. “Looks nothing like the ones on TV.”

Well that answered nothing.

Nat checked her phone again but found it blank. She’d texted her band mates before they’d followed the officer to the station to make their statement. The robber was being booked and they’d been told to wait. That was almost thirty minutes ago. Lucky had long ago fallen asleep beside Clint’s chair.

“No word from the gang?”

She shook her head. With a sigh she tucked her phone away and turned to face Clint. “Hell of a hit, by the way. I guess archery does have some practical applications.”

“Now wait a second,” he angled himself to match her, putting them face-to-face. “There are numerous tactical advantages to archery over other weaponry. You’re looking at a long distance weapon that’s virtually silent. An archer might have to get a little closer to make a hit versus a high-powered rifle, but you can get off more than one shot before you location is compromised. Not to mention you can specialize arrowheads with gases or explosives to-” he halted at Natasha’s smirk. “What?”

“I didn’t realize I hit a sore spot.”

“Yeah, well.” He sat back, arms crossed over his chest. “If I had a dollar for every army superior that told me I was nuts for requesting a bow…”

Nat picked at a loose thread on her jacket sleeve. “Their loss.”

He studied her. There was something going on in her head, he could see the gears turning. It was as if she was waiting to say something, playing with possible words in her mind. Whatever it was though, he got the feeling it’d be a bit before he heard it. Which was fine, really. He was a sniper, good at waiting.

But not so great at keeping quiet. “What about you?”

She looked up, head tilted in puzzlement.

“There was more than just ballet it that move.”

She offered a small grin but it bordered humorless, looked almost sad. “You’d be surprised how violent dancers can be, how viciously competitive.” She took her phone out again and checked it.

Clint got then hint: conversation over.

They sat silently for another few minutes before an officer came to take their statements. No sooner had they finished than Nat’s phone rang.

“Well hello, Sam.”

“The hell did you do, Nat? Police station, really.”

“Calm down, wing man. We stopped a robber from evading the law. Steve would be proud.”

“He is.” Sam sighed. “You need me to pick you up?”

She looked over at Clint, moving the phone away to ask him, “We still meeting at your place to brainstorm?”

He shrugged. “Up to you. Invitation is still open.”

“You at Clint’s building?” she asked Sam.

“Yeah. I got here before I checked my phone. Steve and Bucky went with a group of buddies from the VA. I told them I’d take care of whatever situation you were in.”

“Did I not make it clear I was just giving a statement.”

“You said you needed to make a statement about a robbery. Robbery implies threat of harm, Nat. _Theft_ is stealing without threat of harm.”

“Okay, okay. I get it. You’re criminal justice night classes are teaching you properly.”

“Damn straight, girl. Now, do I need to come pick you up?”

Natasha looked over at Clint to find him petting a now sitting Lucky. “Only if you don’t mind a little dog hair.”

 

“Clinton F. Barton!”

“Shit. Hi, Kate. Glad you’re back.” Clint dropped his keys into the paw print ceramic dish and let Sam and Natasha in before closing the door.

“How many times do I have to tell you to take your phone with you, you dense Gen X noodle.” She poked her head out from the kitchen and visibly snapped her jaw shut. “Oh. Hi.” She glared at Clint. “See, you could’ve called and warned we had company.” Coming around the counter, she extended her hand to Natasha and Sam. “Hello again, Miss Romanov. And you are?”

“Sam Wilson, bass, background vocals, keys, brass.”

“Utility player. Nice,” Kate commented, shaking his hand. “I didn’t realize the meeting was still going on.”

“Hasn’t started yet,” Clint corrected. “Technically.”

“What have you been doing?”

Sam answered, “Pulling their asses out of jail.”

“No!” Clint pointed accusingly at Sam who just grinned. “Don’t even phrase it like that; she’ll explode.”

“Care to explain, Barton?” Kate crossed her arms.

Nat stepped in with, “We tag teamed stopping a running robber.”

“They had us come to station to make a statement. Nothing illegal.”

Kate narrowed her eyes but it was mostly for show. Mostly. “Good. I don’t want to get a bail call ever again.”

Natasha raised a brow at Clint. Hands up in surrender he answered, “Bar fight. No charges.”

“You win?” Sam inquired.

“Does anyone ever ‘win’ in a bar fight?”

“Depends on what started it,” Natasha interjected.

Clint put up Lucky’s leash and rubbed at the mutt’s head. “Some creep was bothering this girl trying to have a night with her friends.” He kept his gaze on his dog. “Admittedly I should’ve thought twice about starting shit with a six-foot and change, two hundred pound, ex-marine.”

Sam huffed a gentle laugh. “He had it coming, no doubt.”

“The dent in my forehead for three months argues.”

Kate rolled her eyes but motioned for the group to settle in the living area, pulling the kitchen barstools to make enough seating. Sam and Nat took the couch while Kate and Clint the stools. Clint couldn’t help but notice Kate had him sitting across from Natasha again.

Kate crossed her legs. “So, do we have any ideas?”

They each scouted their surroundings as if looking for answers in the air around them. Sam coughed, Kate hmmmed. Clint and Nat glanced at each other in silence. Sam started a suggestion but waved it away. Kate tossed out a few ideas but none resonated. The clock on the shelves kept ticking in the silences between half plots and scraped thoughts.

“Looks like we’ll need to revisit,” Kate inferred. “Well,” she settled into her chair, “how about we at least set a date?” She pulled out her phone, checking her schedule. Nat and Sam did the same. Clint leaned over to look off of Kate’s screen. “We’ve got a vid for this week and next and we post on Tuesdays.”

“We post on Thursdays, every other week,” Nat countered. “We’re posting this week.”

“So if we split the difference that puts us posting on a Wednesday. Is that okay?” Clint asked.

The other two nodded. Nat went on, “And if we keep with a posting schedule that puts us releasing the vid on the…” she followed the calendar with her finger, “fourteenth.”

“Fourteenth of February? And you shoot arrows?” Sam laughed. “Well, that sparks an idea.” He pointed at Clint. “Right, cupid?”

“Okay, I’m vetoing this right now. I am _not_ playing Cupid.”

Kate smirked but nodded, making a note in her phone.

“That’s not a bad idea though,” Natasha began.

“Did you not hear me veto?” Clint exclaimed.

“No, not Cupid, necessarily. But you have to admit, mythology would lend well to our content. Dance and arrows and knives and archery…”

“Maybe even go more narrative in the production,” Sam added. “Let the music tell a story too.”

“Like a real ballet,” Nat summarized.

Kate took some more notes. “I love this. How about we all do some research and meet again to discuss story?”

“Sounds good,” Sam confirmed. “I believe we have Friday evening open.”

“Awesome.” Kate made a note on her phone’s calendar. “Discussion over dinner Friday night.”

Sam offered to take Nat home. Kate off-handedly mentioned she was crashing on Clint’s couch, to which Clint shrugged. What was new?

As Natasha and Sam put their coats back on, Sam’s phone rang. He slipped into the hall to take the call. Kate plucked a towel from the linen closet and went to take a shower.

Nat sat on the bar stool Clint put back in place; he slipped in beside her on the accompanying stool.

“I’m sorry,” she announced suddenly.

“What for?” He looked over at her but she remained focused ahead.

“For how I behaved in the café the other day. You didn’t deserve such… assumption.”

Lucky nudged up against Clint’s leg earning a scratch behind the ears. “Well I can’t really fault you for being cautious. It’s a tough business.”

She continued to look at the opposing wall for a moment and that same look crossed her face, the one where she seemed to be on the verge of telling him something. Instead she looked at him with a gentle smile. “You stopped a robber with a tennis ball and took on a hulking Marine to defend someone. How bad can you really be?”

He laughed at that, truly laughed, the kind that crinkled his eyes and made others join him. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. So long as you don’t go poking into my teen years of petty theft and vandalism.”

“Troublemaker?”

“I lived in a van with my irresponsible older brother. What do you expect?” He kept his smile but felt the edges of the conversation teetering on uncomfortable territory. He wondered if Nat sensed it because she jerked a thumb towards the hall saying she should see if Sam was wrapping up his call.

“See you Friday,” she offered as a goodbye.

He waved as she opened and closed the door.

Kate strutted into the kitchen, pajama pants and loose t-shirt signaling she officially quit the night before dinner. “Finally. I kept waiting for her to leave so I didn’t have to show our new partners my off-the-clock look.”

Clint shook his head fondly, getting up to pour kibble into Lucky’s dish. “You think they’ll collaborate again after this vid?”

“Maybe. We’ll have to see how it goes, obviously.” She pulled her head from where she had it buried in the refrigerator. “Why?”

“No reason. Just think they’d be cool to team up with now and then.”

“And you think Natasha’s hot.”

He opened his mouth to protest but nodded instead. There was no point denying it to Kate.

“Good.”

“What?” He looked up from the scoop of dog food waiting to be dispensed.

Kate smirked at him. “It’s working.”

He poured the food and Lucky began chowing down. “You trying to say you’ve planned this, Kate?”

“Planned? No. But did I, in my job as your business partner, purposely choose KnifePointe as a potential collaborator because I thought it might result in at least a new friendship for your lonely ass? Well…I’m not denying it.”

“I ain’t lonely.”

“Of your ten most recent texts,” she ticked off with her fingers, “three of them are pizza joints, one Wade Wilson, me, your ex-wife, your wireless service provider, Phil Coulson, and the last two are group threads with Parker and me, and Wade and me _again._ ”

Clint hung his head. “Really should change my phone’s password.”

“Look,” Kate went on, softer now. “I know this past year’s been tough. You quit your teaching job at the academy, there was that scare in July where your cancer might’ve been back, your week-long fight with Phil, that terrible fling with Jessica Drew.” She moved to sit on the floor by Clint and Lucky. “I just thought you could use something new and exciting and good.” She ran a hand over Lucky’s head. “Especially since I’m going to Argentina with America.”

“What?”

“Just for a couple weeks.”

“Oh, Kate, that’s awesome. Congrats!”

“Yeah well,” she scratched under the Lucky’s chin, “you have to promise me you’ll go out every once in awhile. Grab a beer at some bar, beat somebody’s ass at pool, pick up a woman and bring her back to have wanton sex on every surface in this apartment, which you will then spend the rest of the next day cleaning, ‘cause eww.”

He laughed, standing up and moving for the couch. _Dog Cop_ reruns were already starting as he turned on the TV.

“So, do you?” Kate asked after a bit, bringing over a plate of microwaved leftover pizza. She offered Clint a slice.

He took it. “Do I what?”

“Promise you’ll go out every once in awhile while I’m gone.”

He chewed for longer than usual, swallowed slowly. “Fine.”

She hugged him and offered the rest of the pizza.


	6. Chapter 6

Natasha sat in bed, tea cooling on the side table, and looked up myth after myth in an attempt to formulate some kind of tale with the proclivity to lend itself to dance. Even ignoring all of the rape and murder and petty jealousy, there wasn’t much in the way of narrative that would make sense with their skills.

She threw down her phone in frustration, cursing the very gods she’d been researching and the scholars who kept them alive. _Why would anyone devote their lives to studying this?_

_Wait…_

She picked her phone back up, scanning through the lengthy contact list until she found his name.

[Don’t suppose you know of any Norse Myths with archery and knives that could translate into a male/female partnered dance?] she texted.

It was awhile before a reply came, although with the increasing lateness of the hour that was no surprise.

[What?]

She went to type an explanation but her phone rang in the middle. Well, that was easier anyway. “Hi, Thor.”

“Greetings, fair Natasha.” Thor Odinson rarely failed to be jovial, regardless of time or distance. “I must admit your request is quite odd.”

Nat hummed in agreement. “I was hoping you could help me out here, put that degree to work.”

“You are lucky I am both an early riser and jet lagged.”

“Been traveling?”

“I arrived in Tromsø yesterday. A partial Viking shield was recently found at a construction site. It’s very exciting.”

“Jane with you?”

“She stayed in New Mexico this trip. She’s on the verge of finding evidence to support time differentials in gravity wells.” He paused. “I believe. She has a propensity to put coal in many fires and stoke them all at once.”

Natasha laughed lightly. “Yeah, I remember. I look forward to reading both her and your papers.”

“Indeed. Now about your request. I’m afraid I can’t offer much more than Ullr, god of archery, would be associated with a bow, perhaps some knives. As far as a narrative to interpret through dancing, well Rydberg’s  _Teutonic Mythology_  tells of Ullr assisting Svipdagr-Eiríkr in the rescue of Freyja, goddess of war and sexuality, from giants.”

Nat hummed, thinking it over. It was the same problem with all the mythology she’d researched. Too many characters, not enough story, misogynistic themes. “I’ll think on it. Thanks, Thor.”

“Of course, any time, en grasiøs.” He paused but she could hear him audibly stalling. “Y-you know, Natasha. Myths were often bent and woven to suit the needs of the storyteller. There’s nothing to say you can’t do a little bending and weaving of your own.”

“Hmm.”

“Best of luck.” He hung up.

Nat stared at her phone for a moment pondering his words. Bend and weave. She reached for her tea and frowned at how cold it had gotten. Crawling out of bed, she padded barefoot into the kitchen to reheat the mug in the microwave.

As the cup circled around on the carousel, her phone buzzed signaling a message from Steve. [Sam said you guys settled on a mythology theme.]

[It’s a suggestion. Playing with it.] She took her mug and set it on the counter to let the steam roll off. Damn. Now it was too hot.

[Any leads?] Steve inquired.

[I called Thor Odinson. He told me about Ullr and Freyja and then to ‘bend and weave my own myth.’] She grabbed her mug and went back to her bedroom.

[Literal Prince Odinson? How the flying fuck do you know the Prince of Asgard?]

She smiled at the shock, knowing and loving how casually name dropping famous people made Steve’s head spin. [Prince only in title. Asgard is a Social Democracy. And his mother was a generous patron of the arts, took some of us dancers out to dinner more than once.]

[Next you’re going to tell me you race motorcycles with the King of Wakanda.]

[I wish. Meeting the Dora Milaje would be amazing.] She took a sip of tea; still a little too warm to get the full flavor. [But seriously, how am I supposed to bend and weave a myth?]

[It’s not that hard. Choose a story. Make it fit into your criteria.]

[I’m not exactly a writer, Steve.]

He sent a mockingly weepy emoji.

She messaged back with a middle finger gif done up in red, white, and blue just for him.

[Fuck you too, Nat.]

Signaling the end of their conversation, Nat closed out of messenger, had her tea, and played some mobile app game for nearly thirty minutes before going to bed.

Some time in the night she heard her phone _ping_ indicating an email had arrived. She rolled over and went back to sleep, ignoring the flashing blue dot in the corner of her phone.

…

[Bucky and I wrote the myth for you.] the text read.

She stared at it, blinking at the glare of the screen even in her lit kitchen at nine AM. _The hell?_ She opened the email that had come in late last night, or really, early this morning, 2AM. It was from Steve, same as the text. A Word document was attached. She opened it, read it through.

 _The hell?!_ She hit the phone icon and called his ass. “The hell, Rogers?” she exclaimed the moment the line connected.

He huffed a laugh. Stifled a yawn. “You like it?”

“You wrote a love story!”

“Uh… yeah? What’s wrong with a love story?”

“I’m going to preform it with a total stranger; that’s what’s wrong.”

Steve yawned again.

 _That’s what he gets for staying up late and writing crap like this,_ Nat thought. But that was a bit unfair. The story was actually pretty good and if she were performing it with Steve or James or even Sam then she’d be more for it. But she barely knew Barton, robber-stopping antics aside. And the content Steve had conjured was… intimate. Not explicit, hell he didn’t even include a kiss. But it was about lovers being in love, forced to fight for one another, and that was going to get awkward.

“It _is_ going to posted on Valentine’s Day,” Steve reminded.

Nat scoffed in reply.

“Well fine. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to use it.” He yawned again. She could hear snoring in the background, no doubt Bucky still snoozing away.

“I…” she didn’t know what to say. The story was good, fit the rhythm and structure needed for a dance number. It left room for Clint’s archery and acrobatics as much and as well as her own knife skills and ballet training. She could already see some choreography, assigning herself most of the movement, letting Clint be more of a prop. A lift would probably be a breeze for him, what with those arms…

_The fuck did that thought come from?_

“I’m going back to bed, Nat,” Steve announced.

“Right. Yeah.” She sighed, pulling together her pride to put it aside. “Thanks, Steve. It’s a good starting point.”

“It’s a masterpiece, you peon.” He hung up.

She decided to send him an apology text later when he was more awake.

Making another mug of tea and some toast, she settled in from of her small TV, set it to the news, and promptly ignored the morning reports. She reread the story, scrolling through it much slower, taking in the details.

> The Warrior raised her arm, lining up the perfect shot. With a practiced ease and grace, she let the knife fly purposefully towards its goal, striking the straw target in the center. She readied another blade, its point disappearing into the target meticulously close to the first. She raised her hand for a third toss, but was stopped by a whistling in the intimate space above her head. An arrow blossomed from the target’s center. Whipping around she spied the marksman atop a rocky outcropping near her training ground. She ran towards him, smile on her red lips. He outstretched his arms, wrapping her in a loving embrace the moment she was within reach. She squeezed him back, delighted her Hunter had returned to her safely.
> 
> But not all were pleased with the reunion. The Goddess of War looked on in disgust at two lovers’ happiness. They served her brother, the God of Love, offered their sacrifices to him, yet wielded weapons and fought without a single prayer murmured to her. It was an injustice she planned to right.
> 
> That night, with a single poisoned arrow, she struck the Warrior’s heart, polluting the love there, perverting it into hatred and rage. The Warrior turned on her lover, began attacking him with the skill and prowess only an experienced fighter could muster.
> 
> The Hunter was shocked at the attack, terrified at the twisted creature his lover had become. He defended himself, arming himself with arrows, using his bow to keep her at bay. But she was an animal, wild with rage and blind hatred. They fought well into the night.
> 
> The sun began to paint the sky when she struck him, forcing him to the ground. His defenses had weakened, too afraid of the monster enshrouded in the skin of his beloved Warrior. With nothing to defend himself, he begged her with his eyes to see that it was him, that he wouldn’t hurt her if she just came back. She raised her hand to put a blade through his heart when he saw it, the arrow prick from the Goddess of War. He knew it was not a wound he’d caused as he’d yet to land a hit. Placing his fingers on the wound, her attention switched to his action.
> 
> It was tender, loving. Not the move of the creature she envisioned before her. She looked in its eyes and found them familiar. Suddenly her heart burned and she collapsed beside her Hunter. When he lifted her head gently in his hands he saw that there were tears threatening her eyes. He brought her close, embracing her.
> 
> The God of Love was moved by the display and refilled the Warrior’s heart with love. The mark where the arrow had pierced grew into the shape of a blood red rose, the symbol of the Love God.
> 
> The Warrior and Hunter left their weapons in the field and walked towards the new day hand in hand.

It might not have been perfect; there were areas she wanted to tweak. But it was good, a solid myth about love conquering all – a load of bull shit from her experiences, but entertainment was all about selling people on lies.

She stood, stretched for several minutes, put on her ballet slippers, and began some warm ups. She had a lot of work to do.


	7. Chapter 7

When Clint had first read the story, he had been surprised at how romantic it was. Kate had asked if he liked it and he told her he liked the three-act structure to it, it’s somewhat lyrical nature. He didn’t tell her that he was thrilled at the content.

Natasha had set up a choreographing session to give him some moves to practice two days ago and he was still really sore from it. But he had limited time to come up with the aerial work for their Valentine’s Day production and had been at AirSports for almost an hour already.

Kate had worked with Steve to get an idea of set design and contracted the job out to Logan – a grizzled Canadian ex-lumberjack who did great work but never lingered for conversation. They were working with a raised platform on the right (as looking towards the stage), a set of silks in the middle, and a lower raised platform on the left.

Clint had had the idea of rigging up three sets of silks in a row with pink in front, black after that, and red furthest behind. At the end of each act, the silks in front would drop, giving the stage a color change to reflect the mood.

He was in the middle of working on a controlled roll drop when Natasha entered the aerial workspace.

“This place is huge,” she commented as Clint tumbled down to meet her on the ground.

“It used to be a warehouse for some company.” He untangled from the silk and smiled at her. “Ready?”

She looked up at the dangling fabric, back to him, then up at it again. “It’s safe, right?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean, if you know what you’re doing. Which, you know, I do. ‘S’why I’m here to teach you.” He dropped his hand and ran it gently over the flowing fabric. “Besides, you won’t be up high in this stuff. And I’m only going to really give you two moves to learn.” He gripped the fabric higher up. “The first is really easy. You’re gonna grip the silk up over your head, loop your arm around it so it encircles your wrist, and then jump and let it swing you around, like this.” He leapt, leaning into the circular motion of the silk as it looped him around. “I’ll take this one, you take that one and we’ll practice. Okay?”

Natasha nodded and stepped up to her fabric. She gripped it, looped it, and jumped, only making it about a foot before she stopped spinning.

“Lean into it,” Clint advised. “Start the motion in the jump.”

She nodded again and tried it once more. This time she made about a half circle before letting go. It was a lot of strain on her wrist and shoulder, more than she expected. “My arm’s going to be killing me, isn’t it.”

“No more than my legs,” he quipped back. “What was that thing called again? A grand jeté?”

She grinned. “You insisted on trying it.”

“Yeah, okay. But next time warn me to stretch. Not all of us can just drop into the splits on command.”

She smiled. “What’s the second move?”

“You haven’t even finished this one.”

“I like to know exactly what I’m getting into first.” She put a hand on her hip, an action Steve told her made her look confident. Bucky said it was cocky.

“Okay then,” Clint complied. “The second is a backflip. I’ll show you first.” He wrapped his wrists and forearms in the fabric, snugged it tight by stretching out his arms, and jumped into a backflip, letting the silk aid him by taking the gravity. “Like that.”

“You make it look easy,” Natasha remarked.

He shrugged. “I’ll help you out the first few times. And if you don’t feel comfortable we can always do something else.”

She rewrapped her wrist like before. “Well it’s only fair I do my part. You are dancing with me.”

“If you can call it that.” He smirked. “I told you, I don’t dance.”

“And after seeing you try really hard in practice yesterday I can say that’s a lie.” She wrapped another loop, pulled it tight and jumped, leaning in to the swing and making a circle.

“Well, Miss Romanov, it appears you’re a fast learner.” He looped his own wrist. “I’m going to go the opposite direction and we’ll meet up in front. Oh, and bend your leading knee. It adds stability and grace to the motion.”

“Okay.” She repeated her previous steps, gaining some more circumference in her circle with the tip about her knee. She met up with Clint in front, face to face, standing less than a foot apart.

“Good,” Clint praised. “Cool, okay, this is where I strike, you parry, then you swipe my legs out. I go to the ground, you loop your other wrist, I strike upwards which launches you into the backflip. You want to run it?”

“Sure. From the top.”

They took their sides, leapt on Clint’s count of three, and circled around to land almost toe-to-toe. “Okay,” Nat started, “stop a little sooner, got it.” She took a step back, ignoring how her heart was beating too quickly. She blamed it on the exertion.

“Yeah, okay. Now,” he stretched out his arm, feigning a strike at her middle. She sidestepped, kicking out her leg, hooking his calf and pulling. He fell in a controlled tumble to the ground as she completed her step to line back up with the silks and secure her other arm.

“Ready?” Clint asked going around behind her. He gently placed his hands on her hips to help her with the flip over.

Nat nodded in answer. She jumped but having not tried it with the silks yet, her reentry going into the flip was shaking. She shot her foot out to steady herself and immediately it hit something hard.

“Fuck!” Clint yelled. “Shit. Ow!”

Nat righted herself, eyes wide with worry as she looked for him. He was several steps away, hand over his mouth and nose.

“Oh my God, are you okay?” She untangled her wrists and rushed over to him. Blood was seeping from between his fingers. “Oh shit. You’re bleeding.”

He looked up at her, eyes sarcastically glaring a _you think_ expression behind the pain in them.

Nat grabbed her towel from her gym bag. Glad she’d brought it for their training session, she guided Clint to sit on the ground before kneeling in front of him and, gently pulling his hands away, applied the towel. “I’m so sorry,” she apologized.

He waved her off but it was difficult to take it seriously when his hands were red and drippy.

“We should get you to a doctor.”

“Clinic ‘bout a block south,” he muttered. “S’not broken. I’ve had that before.”

She nodded but still insisted someone take a look.

After gathering her and his stuff, Nat helped Clint to his feet and down the near two blocks to a tiny clinic squeezed between a bodega and used appliance store. A bell over the door announced their presence and Natasha was briefly shocked at the Zen-spa-like feel of the waiting room. Chimes hung from the ceiling next to a shelf of herbal supplements. A salt rock filter sat plugged in next to a tiny water fountain that trickled over pebbles. The check-in counter held a potted bamboo plant off to the side.

“Back again, Barton?” the woman behind the counter inquired.

Clint nodded, adjusting the towel still pinched to his nose. “Not my fault this time, Betty.” He pointed to Nat with his thumb, incriminating her.

Betty rolled her eyes, clicked around on the computer for less than a minute then instructed Clint to go on back to exam room two.

“Been here before, huh?” Natasha asked.

“Have Betty tell you about the owl incident. It’s a hoot.” He grinned at his own joke then trudged down the hall to exam room two. It was a familiar space, all Rockwellian décor from the glass jar of tongue compressors to that particular shade of Mom-and-Pop green.

Clint sat himself down on the exam table and waited for the recognizably quiet voice of Bruce Banner.

Dr. Banner had been a biochemist until an accident at the lab involving radiation gave him a rare form of brain tumor. Inoperable, the doctors had told him. The tumor itself was benign, but it pushed on the part of his brain that controlled his mood. He was known to fly into terrifying fits of rage if even a little angered or annoyed. He battled it with any treatment he could find: medication, supplements, yoga, meditation. He studied his disease, which led to studying others and in the search to help heal himself, he found a passion for healing others. He got his medical degree and opened his little clinic with his long-time girlfriend – c’mon propose already, Bruce – Betty Ross.

“Clint Barton, is this really the third time this month you’re in here?” Banner was all gentle smiles when he walked in though, taking any sting out of the question.

“Just my nose this time, doc.”

Banner nodded as he washed his hands. “Let’s take a look.” He put on gloves and carefully removed the towel from Clint’s face. “What happened? Betty mentioned you came in with a woman. She looked worried, by the way.”

“I’m fine.”

“I’ll decide that,” Bruce directed with a small smile. The blood had slowed significantly. Good sign. “So what happened?”

“She accidently kicked me coming out of a flip.”

Banner gathered some cleaning materials for the dried blood. “Any headache, nausea?”

“Little bit of a headache.”

“That’s Barton for considerable pain.” He made a note in Clint’s file. “Some Tylenol will help.” He went back to examining the area, cleaning up the dried blood as he went. He ran a concussion test, frowning slightly when Clint didn’t know the date.

“C’mon, Banner. I didn’t look a calendar this morning. It’s February. I know that much.”

“It’s the seventh, Barton. Follow my finger with you eyes.” Well, at least he passed that test. “Okay, nothing appears to be broken and I don’t think you have a concussion, but I want you to have someone stay with you for the next twenty-four hours just in case. They’ll need to wake you up periodically tonight to make sure you can awake normally too. And take it easy the next two days, rest and don’t strain your brain; no video games or work. Catch up on some sleep, watch mindless TV. If your headache doesn’t go away or gets worse, come and see me. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.” The salute was uncalled for but Barton did it anyway. He liked Bruce. But doctors always made him feel like a teenager being scolded for riding a dirt bike too fast. They just didn’t get the need for the escape, the adrenaline of the air. More than one had told him to go easy on the aerial stuff since he was “getting older.” _Fuck that_.

“Also, while I have you here, I’m going to just listen to your lungs today, check in on them.” He went behind Clint, instructing him to breathe in and out. “Sounds good. Keep eating healthy, exercising, and remember to go to the emergency room immediately if you…”

“I know the drill, doc.”

Bruce nodded. “If you haven’t made your annual screening appointment with the hospital yet, Betty can get that set up.”

“Thanks, Bruce.”

He patted Clint’s shoulder and, handing him his chart, told him to sign out with Betty.

Clint could hear the pair chatting as soon as he stepped out the door. Natasha laughed at something Betty said and Clint found himself wrapped up in the sound. She didn’t laugh a whole lot, at least as far as he could tell in the times he’d spent with her. He loved the way it reminded him of music, like the chimes hanging in Bruce’s waiting room, like the _thrum_ of a bowstring.

“Will you live?” Betty asked facetiously.

“For ever and ever.”

“Shame.” Betty smiled and took the file Clint handed her. “Natasha here was telling me about your new project. I can’t wait to see it.”

“Like and subscribe, Ms Ross.”

“Already done, Mr. Barton. For you and Natasha’s channel.” She flipped through the file. “You want to go ahead and make that screening appointment?”

He glanced at Natasha, clearing this throat before nodding. “Yeah um, I’ll just take whatever I can get.”

Betty cast a glance from him to Nat but went on typing. “I’ll call and let you know what we can get set up.”

“Sounds good.”

“Take it easy, Clint.”

“Yep. Thanks, Betty.”

Nat walked with him to the sidewalk outside before asking, “What’s the diagnosis?”

“Not broken. Possible concussion. I’m out for the next couple days.” He tried for a cab but it went past. “And I’m going to need to text Kate and see if she can ‘concussion watch’ my ass tonight.”

“I can do that,” Natasha offered before immediately wishing she hadn’t.

The idea of spending hours late into the night with Clint Barton had her heart pounding. They were already pushing physical boundaries with their routine, all choreographed fighting and Steve’s stupid love story. And it wasn’t like Clint was unattractive; on the contrary, she found him flat out adorable with this big blue eyes, charming smile, and messy blonde hair. Not to mention how good of shape he was in, especially those damn arms. And that easy sense of humor and quick wit, she was in trouble.

So no, spending the night playing nurse was not a good idea.

“You sure?” he asked.

“Yeah. I feel bad about almost breaking you.”

His face lit up, smile big and playful. “Ah now, it takes more than a kick to the nose to break me.”

This was a terrible decision.

“Then again, concussion might be on the table…”

Horrible, really, truly horrible choice.

“Hope you like Dog Cops.”

She found herself saying, “Personally I’m more for Paw and Order.”

“Cat person.”

Disastrous.

Because he offered his hand and it didn’t matter that she told herself taking it would only be to make sure he didn’t fall. It didn’t matter that she lied to herself about the way his smile made her feel like smiling back. It didn’t matter that there was no way this was going to end well because it never ended well with her.

She took his hand anyway.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING! Mentions of past suicidal thoughts/intentions  
> WARNING! Mentions of past self-harm

They’d grabbed a cab to Clint’s apartment where Lucky was more than excited to greet them at the door. Clint knelt to pet the mutt and scratch behind his ears. “You need a walk, don’t you boy?”

“Oh no. Doctors orders were to rest,” Natasha reminded. “We’ll get you settled in then I’ll take him out.”

Clint looked up at her. “Really, Tasha, you don’t have to do this for me. I can call Kate and she can be here in less than an hour.”

“That still leaves you with an hour unattended. Besides, I’m sure Kate’s busy and I’m not so…” Why was she doing this? He’d given her and out and instead she’d rebutted it. Did she really love torture that much?

He grinned, smile wide and eyes alight with joy. It made him look younger, happier. It became a sudden need to see that smile more.

Yep. Loved torture.

“You hungry?” she inquired, moving to the kitchen to examine the fridge for dinner.

“Starving. We’ll have to order something, though.” He sighed as he stood. “Can’t ever seem to keep that thing stocked.”

“No worries. I’ll take Lucky out and pick up food to get his walk in. Anything in particular sounding good?”

Clint shrugged. “Dealer’s pick.” He sat down on the couch, shot a text off to Kate saying he was on concussion watch, kicked off his shoes, and put his feet up on the coffee table. He leaned his head back. It was pulsing with pain, which worried him a little.

Natasha didn’t seem bothered by his socks on the coffee table when she sat down next to him a few moments later. She had two Tylenol in her hand and a glass of water. “Probably due for some of these, huh?”

Clint took the pain pills and water from her, swallowing them down easily. He wasn’t a big pill taker, but some pains required a little extra help. And he’d had more than his share to know.

“We passed a Thai place about two blocks down on our way here. Is it any good?”

Clint nodded. “Tell Nan I sent you. She’ll hook you up with extra _Nam phrik_ no charge.” He let his head fall back again, closing his eyes. Damn, his head really hurt.

“You okay to leave for a bit?”

He waved her off. “Just a headache.”

“I really am sorry,” she admitted quietly.

He opened his eyes, rolling his head to look at her. “It was an accident, Nat. I could’ve gotten out of the way if I’d have been paying closer attention.”

“You just said it was an accident.”

“It was.”

“Then you’re not allowed to take the blame in the same breath.”

His gaze narrowed a degree and she held it, challenging him with his own words. If it truly was an accident, he didn’t get to shoulder blame any more than she did, and Natasha was well versed in shouldering blame.

“Can I get _Pad thai_?”

It was a subject change but she permitted it. Grabbing her phone and finding the shop’s number, she called in their order and was given a wait time of about thrity minutes.

Clint turned on the TV, set it to a classic movie channel, and returned to reclining his head against the back of the couch. “You can change it if you want. I’m probably going to fall asleep.”

“Should I wake you before I leave?”

“Probably.”

It was barely a minute later that he was snoring gently. She hoped the pain relievers kicked in soon.

The movie was some western. Rough and tumble cowboys were going after bandits. White hats versus black hats, good versus evil. It must’ve been nice to live in such a clearly-cut world. A world where thieves got what was coming to them.

The timer she’d set on her phone dinged, and Nat moved to get Lucky on his leash. She tapped Clint gently on the shoulder to pull him from his nap and alerted him to her departure. He nodded, rubbed at his eyes; the TV seemed a little too bright.

“I’ll be back in twenty minutes. It’s okay if you want to go back to sleep.”

He closed his eyes and followed the suggestion. He wasn’t sure if he actually fell asleep but figured he must have since Nat came back through the door, Lucky excitedly jumping for the food in the bags, ten seconds after she’d left. She pulled some plates from the kitchen and brought over their feast.

“Sit,” Clint commanded Lucky when the dog went for the _Phat khi mao_  Nat had ordered. Lucky obeyed but stayed begging with literal puppy dog eyes. Clint tossed him a small piece of chicken after instructing the mutt to lie down.

They were quiet for most of the dinner, just enjoying food, occasionally poking fun at the cheesy sci-fi that had come on screen. Clint offered a bite of his _Pad thai_ and Nat had to admit the sample was tasty. She reciprocated and offered some of her order, but Clint declined saying he wasn’t a fan of that much basil.

“Can I ask you something?” Natasha queried softly after their meal was finished and they’d settled in deeper on the couch, ripping the sci-fi flick to shreds.

“Go for it,” Clint replied. The pain relievers had kicked in once he ate and he was feeling much better, save for the tension in his muscles from trying to keep himself from slumping towards Nat on the somewhat lumpy couch. She was being really nice and taking care of him, the last thing he wanted was her thinking he was trying to make a move or take advantage of her being there.

“It’s just, Betty said you and Bruce met at a complimentary and alternative treatment seminar.”

Clint bit the insides of his cheeks. This was not going to go a good direction.

“Then she mentioned the screening appointment. And coupled with the abrupt subject change when Steve asked about you smoking when we first met, it kind of keeps bugging me.” She looked at him, eyes a little hazy and hard to read, but soft in the pale glow of the TV. “Clint, did you have cancer?”

He remained quiet, the space between them tense and filled faultily with the sounds of cheap laser blasts from the movie to their side. He sighed deeply, bowing his head when he answered, “Yeah. I did.” He lifted his shirt to show her the scar running along his back near his shoulder from the surgery. “Took out part of my right lung. Ran the whole chemo and radiation gauntlet.” He dropped his shirt but didn’t look at her. He couldn’t, not yet. “It was some of the worst months of my life. And if it hadn’t been for Bobbi…” He shook his head. “Well, hell. Even that ended up a mess.” He flicked his eyes in her direction but remained staring ahead. He scoffed, shaking his head again. “You know, I only went to the seminar to spite her. She never believed in any of the herbal and yoga stuff. And I was so damn sick I was desperate for anything.”

Nat wanted to reach out for his hand but held back, unsure if he’d pull away or not.

“You want to know the worst part of it?” he squeezed out, mouth tight and eyes narrowed, clearly fighting tears. “Last summer they thought it might be back. And while I waited for the test results, all I could think of was how if they were positive, I wasn’t going to treat it. I’d just let it kill me. Because there was no way in hell I was going to go through it again.” He looked at her then, finally, and she hated the pain she saw there. “Isn’t that selfish? I wasn’t even going to pretend to fight ‘cause…”

“I don’t think it’s that selfish,” she whispered. She dropped her gaze to her hands, readjusted how she had them folded. “When they told me I’d never dance again, even after the surgery, how I’d never be on stage again, I…” she took a breath, “I sat in my room with the door locked, a knife in one hand, and my wrist exposed on the other.” Moisture stung at her eyes. “I made tiny cuts, superficial marks, but the whole time I debated about going further, deeper.” She rubbed at her eyes. Cleared her throat.

Silence stretched between them, each taking in the other’s pain, letting it sit heavy and sharp like the spicy food in their stomachs.

“You think,” he started, “maybe a part of life is nearly losing it so you can finally start living it? Like maybe we’re all given little reminders that it’s not permanent so we can reevaluate what we have left to do before it comes to and end for real?”

“Maybe” she responded gently. Then, “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” he agreed back. His big blue eyes were watery but lit up.

She half-smiled, letting herself lean in just a bit. “I’m glad your results came back negative.”

“I’m glad you didn’t go any further with that knife.”

He was close now; she dared to reach out and touch his hand. God, it was warm.

She leaned in ever so slightly and saw his eyes drop to her lips. He pushed closer. She went to eliminate the space between them. His breath danced featherlight across her skin. She parted her lips waiting for the connect.

“Jesus, Clint. Answer your phone, damn it!” Kate’s voice cut through the moment as she barged in. “I get a text from you saying you’re on concussion watch and then nothing.” She tossed her purse and jacket in the hall closet.

“Battery died,” he called to her.

She stood, hand on her hip as she faced them. “Oh, please don’t tell me he suckered you into taking care of him, Natasha. He’s a baby when he’s sick.”

“Well it was mostly getting him home and having dinner,” she answered, standing up and brushing her hands over her pants as if wiping off crumbs.

“Go home. Seriously. I’ll take care of him. You don’t need to be nursing his stupid broken body to health.”

“Well I,” Nat started but bit her tongue. Had she actually been moments away from kissing Clint Barton? Maybe it was best she did go home… “Are you sure, Kate?”

“Please. I’ve done worse than concussion watch duty. Go home. Get some sleep. Be a professional, working adult like normal people and leave the graceless acrobat to me.”

“Hey!” Clint objected.

“Okay. Um, I’ll video call you tomorrow, Clint, to finish working on that last bit of fight choreography.”

“Sounds good.”

Natasha gathered her coat and bag, petting Lucky on the way. “Night.” The others bid their responding farewells and she left.

“God, Kate. You couldn’t have waited just five more minutes.”

“You told me you might have a concussion. I came as soon as you didn’t answer. I was _panicked_.”

“We were going to… there was going to be… Uhg! Kiss!” He collapsed his head into his hands.

“Wait. No. Really? I…” she bit her lip. “Shit, Clint.”

He sighed and slumped back into the couch. “It’s probably for the best. She is a busienss contact and we haven’t even filmed yet.”

“Yeah, but-”

“No. It’s better this way.” He folded his arms indignantly. “But I’m not talking to you.”

Kate rolled her eyes and sat down beside him. Another classic movie had come on, this one a classic horror film. “Popcorn?”

“Extra butter.”

Kate got up to get the microwaveable bag from the pantry.

“Garlic butter,” Clint corrected before muttering to himself, “not like I’m gonna be kissing anyone.”


	9. Chapter 9

The day of the shoot had finally arrived.

The past week had been hectic: full of meetings and finalizations, frantic fixes to choreography once Clint was back on his feet, production meetings about the set and costumes, lighting. It was no wonder Nat’s head was pounding when she came in to AirSports on filming day. It also didn’t help that Clint was waiting for her outside.

They hadn’t talked about the almost kiss the other night, both electing to ignore what might have happened. She was relieved that he hadn’t tried to bring it up. But at the same time she could tell the weight of it hadn’t left. It hung heavily between them, throwing off choreography that should’ve been simple, making them step on each other’s toes, collide instead of gracefully sail past one another in their fight sequences. (She’d even seen him miss the center of a target but that was only once.) They’d been far less practiced last week and yet more in sync than what they were now.

“Hey,” he greeted.

“Haunting the corner?” she tried as a joke. He smiled but nothing really settled between them anymore.

“Kate was arguing with Bucky over something. I didn’t catch what. Didn’t want to.” He shrugged on the end as an awkward add on when she didn’t reply. They entered together, getting into a small stalemate when he opened the door for her but she motioned for him to go on through first.

They really needed to fix this.

“I’m just saying,” Kate’s exhausted tone filled the large warehouse space, “that the red light cue is a visual compliment to the musical uptick.”

“But it’s overdone!” Bucky argued back. “Give the audience some room for intelligence. They don’t always need to be spoon-fed. We get that the Goddess of War is the villain in the lyrics.”

“But since the silks change to black, a red spot would help bridge the two sections before and after.”

“Does the projection background change to red?” Nat interrupted.

They looked at her. Kate answered, “We kept it dark blue since it’s supposed to be at night.” She glanced at Bucky. “Do you think that’d be better?”

Bucky considered it then nodded. “It’ll be a nice fade into pink for the sunrise. I’ll tell Lang to change the cue to red.” He left, calling over to Scott Lang.

Nat rubbed at her temples after Kate said her thanks and moved on to the next issue.

“Kinda crazy, huh?” Clint asked beside her.

“Remind me again why we’re doing this?”

He looked hurt at the comment and she regretted it immediately. They really needed get back on track. “Can we run the lift again? I’m having difficulty with the follow through.”

Clint nodded, put down his bag, and wandered over with her to a more open space. She took several steps back to give herself room. “Ready?”

“Yep.”

She ran towards him. He caught her hips in his hands, using her momentum to aid her skyward and over to the other side where she spun out of his hands. They’d run the lift nearly a hundred times now, it was near perfect.

“One more time?” Nat requested.

Clint assumed the catch position while she went back to the start. She ran towards him, he caught her, brought her up, over, down. She started her first spin, Clint’s hand still on her closest hip and-

She stumbled, tripped over a crack in the concrete. The world was lopsided and she embraced for the impact of the fall. Instead Clint’s warm arm wrapped around her waist, breaking her fall, and lifting her upright with a, “I got ya.”

He’d pulled her in as he’d brought her up and she was now all but flush with him. Her cheeks suddenly felt tingly and warm, like her whole body was on fire.

“I got ya,” he repeated, voice a little low and husky.

“Clint,” she breathed.

“I know, I know, I’m late,” Steve announced loudly as he entered the warehouse carrying three garment bags. “Your costumes,” he directed at Clint and Nat, then Kate who was standing in as the Goddess of War.

Sam added, “You two want to do a dry run before rehearsal?”

“Yes,” they both answered. It was the first thing they’d agreed on since that evening last week.

…

The dry run went okay. She messed up her jump with the silk and Clint nearly dropped her on the lift. But overall it wasn’t the worst thing ever.

That was dress rehearsal.

It was rocky to begin with since they were now doing their routine in costume, a completely different feel than simple athletic wear. They were incredible costumes, though, and Nat had to give Steve credit there. He’d been very secretive of the design, enlisting his friend Janet from art school to do the actual sewing.

Hers was a Grecian style dress slit up both sides in the legs so she could move, a leather bodice with a corset back and Gladiator-style strips of leather to form a shorter skirt, leather bracers decorated with gold, a matching circlet to hold back her hair, and all of her modern straps and holsters for her knife blades. She’d elected to wear a pair of black lyrical dance shoes, only covering the ball of her foot with a stretchy, padded “foot thong.”

Clint had a similar look in costume and she had to stop herself from openly gaping at him. He wore a longer version of her Gladiator-style armor, starting at his navel with a thick belt instead of covering his chest, because of course that was left mostly bare. A draping of white fabric covered his shoulders, pinned at the left one, going around his neck, and over the right, like a cape turned to the side, cutting a diagonal across his chest. The three-point strap for this modern black quiver rested on the opposite pectoral. Tightly laced black combat boots rose to his knees and with his sleek black bow and matching arm guard the look was quite literally killer.

“Lookin’ good, red,” Sam had commented before noticing her line of sight. “Or lookin’ hard?”

She’d broken her apparently obvious ogling to turn to him. “Hmm?”

He’d waved her off. “You got it bad, girl.”

But the newness of the costumes could only take so much of the blame. Nat and Clint were just too far off balance with each other as became evident when it came to the lift.

She charged after him, channeling her character and preparing to attack viciously, the music playing over the loudspeakers adding atmosphere. He caught her, lifting her up high and twisting to bring her over and down.

She landed on the wrong foot, her damaged one. She gasped in pain, instinctively launching back as if to get away from the agony of her aggravated ankle. Her back hit the stem of a stage lamp, causing both her and it to tip over and crash on the concrete floor. Glass from the light covering scattered in shards.

“Tasha!” Clint called out panicked, taking a step towards her as Kate cut in, “No one move!” The music stopped. Kate turned to Scott who was furthest from the glass explosion. “Get a broom and dustpan.”

“I’m okay,” Nat reassured. “Just my ankle.”

Clint carefully picked his way towards her, wary of the glint of any shards beneath his feet. Thankfully he had on the boots as compared to Nat’s tiny half-shoes. “Tasha,” he repeated once next to her.

“I’m okay.”

“I’m going to pick you up, okay? Get you out of all this glass.”

She nodded, slinging her arms around his shoulders when he picked her up bridal style and took her over to a cluster of folding chairs the others had set up around the lights and soundboard. He set her down carefully and she tried to hide the sudden wave of embarrassment that was crashing over her. She’d fallen, destroyed a light, and was now sitting before a kneeling Clint who was asking to see her ankle, inspect it for damage.

Scott returned with a broom for the big pieces and Bucky followed with a vacuum cleaner for the little stuff. An AirSports staff person trailed behind them with a clipboard, probably some property damage liability waiver. He went over to Kate and they began discussing something that put a frown on Kate’s face instantly.

“Tasha?”

“I’m okay.”

“I know, you keep saying that.” His hands were gently probing her ankle. They felt way better than they should, warm and calloused. Rough hands full of experience.

She swallowed hard, trying to ignore the scraping and pinging of Bucky and Sam and Steve cleaning up the mess of glass, a mess she’d made. “How bad is it?” she asked hesitantly.

Clint bobbed a shoulder, playing it cool. “Maybe a little swelling. Nothing broken.” He glanced up at her. “Honestly I’m more concerned with the fall you took.”

She ran a hand over her back, felt a sore spot near her hip. “Just a bruise.”

The vacuum cleaner roared to life, echoing harshly in the large open space of the warehouse. The AirSports guy was still talking to Kate. Clint had come to sit next to her. She took his hand, not wanting to be without it.

The machine eventually cut off. Kate and the AirSports guy seemed to have come to some agreement. Natasha didn’t let go of Clint.

“Okay, we’re good to film still, but,” Kate glanced over at Nat, “it’s probably better we come back tomorrow. You should get some ice on that.”

“There’s a bar down the street,” Scott suggested.

Kate glared at him.

“What? They have ice.”

“I could go for a drink,” Bucky chimed in, broom slung over his shoulder like a musket. It looked oddly American Civil War era with his loose sleeve hanging empty on the other side.

“I could probably stand some vodka,” Natasha admitted.

Kate looked at Clint. He stood, offering his hand for Nat.

“Okay then,” Kate concluded. “Off to the bar to put your ankle on the rocks.”


	10. Chapter 10

Natasha was sitting on a chair with her ankle towel-wrapped-ice covered and propped up on another. Clint took his turn at pool against Bucky who was giving Clint a run for his money. But as he sunk the last of his solid-colored balls into the far pocket, Clint took the game. He cheered and demanded Bucky owed him another drink.

“Oh sure, play the guy with one arm and celebrate when you beat him.” But he picked up Clint’s empty beer bottle and shuffled back to the bar. Kate sidled over, pointing further down the way to where Natasha was sitting with Steve. “You gonna tell me what the hell is wrong with you two?”

Clint shrugged, setting up the pool cue for another game.

Kate sipped at her drink, something fruity and probably damn near toxic. “You afraid she’ll say no?”

He didn’t answer.

“You afraid you’ll loose her?”

He looked up, gaze razor sharp, a warning for her to back off. But Kate had always pushed boundaries. “You did this to Phil too, you know. Quit talking to him because you were scared you’d have to say goodbye.” She took another sip. “You’re not sick, Clint. Quit living like you are.”

“But it’s still there, Kate. It’s… lurking.”

“So what? You give up on living your life because you’re terrified you’ll loose it?” She shook her head. “Clint, look at her. She’s a total knockout, the full package, and you’re sabotaging something that hasn’t even had a chance to get started.”

He frowned, looked around for Bucky with his beer.

“Clinton Francis Barton, you are a fucking idiot,” Kate went on. “I mean, look, you two have already dealt with actual cops and robbers, braved medical emergencies with a near concussion and almost broken ankle. You shattered a light and almost set fire to a whole building. You’ve already dealt with drama and disasters. And look, you’re still in one piece.” She looked him up and down, glad he’d changed back into street clothes before coming to the bar. “A kinda jagged, rough around the edges, piece, but still. I honestly don’t think there’s a single thing you two can’t overcome.”

Clint stared at her, mouth moving to make words that never completely formed. A few moments later he landed on, “That’s a surprising amount of faith coming from someone who just called me a fucking idiot.”

“Yeah, well, my ass is getting on a plane to Argentina in four days, so what do I care.” It was a front and they both knew it. But it was enough.

“Thanks, Katie.”

She rolled her eyes at the nickname and watched him make his way over to Natasha.

Clint sat down next to her, nodding to her empty vodka glass. “Need a refill?”

She shook her head. “Thanks, though.”

“How’s the ankle?”

“Feeling better.” She poked at the ice bag inside the towel. “I think I just kind of panicked since last time I injured it…”

She didn’t have to finish. Clint knew.

He blew out a breath. Tapped his fingers against his legs. “Wanna play me at pool? I’ll give you a handicap ‘cause of the ankle and-”

“Clint.”

He whipped his head up to face her, not liking the seriousness in her gaze.

“About the other night,” she started.

“Can I go first?” He swallowed visibly, eyes intense and silently begging for her to hear him out.

“Okay.”

He sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Look, Tasha.” He sighed again, deeper this time. “When those doctors told me last summer that my cancer might be back, I didn’t just panic for the time it took to get my results back. I kept panicking. Have been panicking. I… pushed people away, cut ties, or at least tried to. I stopped answering texts from Phil and purposely left my phone home so Kate couldn’t reach me, and stayed cooped up for days, all because…ah hell, because I was scared. Terrified, really. I didn’t want to face the reality that if that cancer had been back I’d have to fight it again because I had people in my life that would want me to, _need_ me to.

“And then I met you and for the first time in a long time I didn’t want to push someone away. And maybe that scared me even more or whatever, but I’m… I don’t know, tired of being scared.” He looked tentatively at her, not sure what he wanted to see on her face. Tears were not it. “Oh, shit. I - no no no no, don’t cry. “ He reached out for her, pulling her into his chest and letting her tears hit his shirt. “I didn’t… mean to make you cry.”

She kept her head buried in his chest, allowing for the first time in years the tears to come. It was too much. He’d been too honest and now she had no excuse to keep her reservations to herself.

It was time for the truth.

She pulled back, rubbing at her eyes, grateful he kept his arms around her. “My best friend stole my first channel,” she confessed hurriedly.

He ran his hand over her back, eyes soft and sorry.

She went on, “Yelena and I were… friends, best friends. Sisters, really. We came over from Russia together, both danced for the Met. And when I hurt my ankle,” she paused, ignoring the sudden throbbing in her injury, “she was right there with me through all of it: the surgeries and recovery, physical therapy.” She let her head drop to Clint’s shoulder. He held her tighter. “I started my channel as a way to get back into it, to dance again.” She smiled faintly. “I called the channel ‘Tu-Tu-Torials.’ They were short instructional videos, little step combinations, how-tos. Nothing special. But for me…”

“You were dancing again,” he filled in.

She nodded. “Yelena helped me make every one of those videos, told me how proud she was of me for doing them.” She pulled in a shaky breath. It had been ages since she told anyone this part. “I was dating this guy at the time, Alexi. And he flirted with Yelena sometimes. It was never anything… threatening. Just kind of casual flirting.” She paused, leaning further into Clint. “I had no idea that the moment I was under for my next round of surgery, she sold my channel, kept the money, and eloped with Alexi back to Russia.”

“Tasha,” he breathed, pain in his voice, sympathy. It was her name uttered like it was damn near precious.

“So when you came and wanted to team up for this video…” she trailed off. It didn’t need to be finished. They had the information between them, laid bare and open and all up in the air as he continued to hold her and she let her head rest on his shoulder.

Finally he asked, “Nat, do you still want to do this video?”

She didn’t need think about it. “Yes.”

“Then let’s go film.”

…

The music started, a jazz noir feel, all amber liquid and black silk, a harder edge slipping in with the electric guitar. Natasha swayed with it, letting it take her. Movement and music and motion pulling her with it.

She raised her arm, arcing it in a stretch above her head before positioning it for the knife throw. The release was flawless, the knife sinking into the target as easy as stepping on sand. She moved some more to the music, flirting with the hi-hat and snare, teasing the deep bass notes. To the cue of the brass, she released another knife.

She spun, a languid, fluid motion that made her skirt trail before resting back at her legs. She aimed her third knife, but an arrow sprouted from the target’s center instead. When she whipped around to see Clint standing on the raised platform, very little acting was required to show the leaping of her heart. He was there.

Long strides brought her across the stage as an effortless slide down the pink silks lowered him to her. Bow still in hand, he encompassed her, holding her steadfast against his chest.

The lights faded, the projected screen in the back mimicking a sunset. The red cue light took its place, silhouetting the Goddess of War. She was a shadow, a black mark on a scarlet screen.

Steve’s voice chilled the air, a sharp section of vocals and forceful chords to interrupt the instrumental swing.

_Make known your wrath, Goddess of War_

_They use your gifts yet praise you poor_

_Poison a heart, fill it with rage_

_Inside the beast is now un-caged_

An arrow soared, arcing gracefully through the air to land at a target on the far end of the stage.

With intensity she turned, breaking the warm confines of his arms. She snarled, baring teeth and going low into a crouch. The confusion and shock played out on his face, but his body was trained to fight. She launched at him, beginning with a punch from below towards his chin, he followed the motion through, lengthening the action as a part of the dance.

She kicked, he dodged. He lashed out, she swept to the side. Fluid, liquid motions. An extension of each other. She’d go right, he’d follow through to the left. It was grace and fury, as much a fight as it was a dance.

A feigned kick knocked her backwards into a back walkover, placing her far enough to toss dulled blades towards him. They were well telegraphed motions, easily dodged. He stepped forward with each throw, allowing him to reach up and grab one of the now black silks. He climbed it like rope up to the top platform, taking his stance to shoot arrows to at her. They landed in the target behind her with her original knives.

She tossed another blade. He gripped his side, simulating her hit, and fell forward into the silks. Bow slung over his shoulder, he wrapped his legs with one hand, the other holding his weight until he had enough material to shift his mass to it. It flipped him elegantly. Upside-down he pulled his bow and loosed his last arrow. She flung her penultimate blade, forcing him to tumble down, a controlled fall as the silks unwound around him.

On the ground he slung his bow again, gripping the fabric up high. She copied the action on the other silk, leaping to the music’s swell, forming the circle that dropped her to face him. He struck out with his hand, she parried, going to the ground to swipe at his legs. Another controlled fall. She looped her other wrist, securing it in the dark material. He launched upwards compelling her into the backflip. The silks took the weight, making the flip effortless.

Back on her feet, she used her tangled wrist to bunch up the fabric, looping it around Clint, and buying her time to get free. He unraveled himself, took off his bow and swung at her with it. She jumped over the swing, landing in an arabesque, allowing her to pull the last blade from her leg.

She charged for him. Bow abandoned, he caught her hips in his hands, bringing her up and over. She spun out and away, knife still in hand.

Going for him once more, she struck more center mass, taking them both down. On the ground she straddled him, raised her hand, blade glinting in the stage lighting as the music came crashing around them.

Silence.

Then softly, a piano note, sustained over the heartbeat of the kick drum.

_Where’s your heart gone_

_I don’t understand_

_Why death must come at your hand_

_A hand I held through summer’s light,_

_Winter’s cold, and stormy nights_

_Gods above hear me true_

_This is not the love I knew_

_My Warrior, dear, it’s not too late_

_Still your hand, rewrite our fate_

The black silks dropped, turning to red.

She blinked once, twice. She slowly crawled off him, folding into herself with shame. But he reached for her, his hand resting gently on her back. She turned to him, flinging her arms around his shoulders, knife dropping to the ground. His hands came to frame her face.

Clint couldn’t help the small smile on his lips. She was gorgeous, lips red and eyes lined, but _her_ underneath.

He leaned in.

Natasha grinned and closed the space between them.

His lips were soft, gentle. He tasted a little like the beer from earlier but also of something sweeter, aromatic. She let him deepen the kiss, pulling her closer, helping her stand while not letting go. She was only vaguely aware of the whooping and hollering from their friends just off set.

The song was still playing, almost to the end and they still had to walk towards the red silks and disappear behind them, weapons abandoned.

Oh well. They’d fix it in post.


	11. Epilogue

**Three Years Later**

“I can’t believe Tony got Fury to agree to a SHIELD wide party. Do you know how many people that is?” Clint cleaned his razor in the sink, continuing on over the sound of the shower. “We’re looking at everyone from every division. Science, Information, Entertainment, Learning, Defense.”

“You forgot History, dear,” Natasha commented, turning off the water and stepping out of the shower. Clint handed her a towel, unabashedly admiring the view as he did so. Maybe Nat wrapped the towel around her a little more slowly than what was necessary, giving him a wink.

He raised an appreciative brow but went back to shaving. “Does that mean Thor will be there? I couldn’t remember if SHIELD brought his channel into their production fold.”

“He signed on, yeah.” She ran the towel over her hair, scrunching up the ends to get them to curl. She’d gotten it cut recently was still trying to get used to the new length. “I just hope Stark has a place to put everyone.”

“He rented out two ball rooms.” Clint rinsed off the leftover shaving cream. He ran his hands under the water again and dropped his head to run the water over his scalp. Tiny little stubble of new hair pricked at his fingers. Natasha handed him her towel to dry off the excess, ultimately ending up behind him, wrapping her arms around his chest, head resting against his back. She could see the new Laparoscopic scar above the original one, both now incorporated into his half of their matching tattoos. Hers was on her opposite side to they touched when standing next to each other, his a knife and hers an arrow tilted in different directions to form an X.

“You keep that up and we’re going to be late,” he scolded. The fact that she could see the tent in his pants told her his thoughts were clearly not on the fancy Valentine’s Day dinner Stark was throwing for his production company.

After their collaboration video went viral, Stark had offered Clint and Kate a sponsorship deal. By the end of the year, a production company, ‘Art of War,’ consisting of Tempo-Tossed, Arrow-Batics, and KnifePointe, was tossed around. Six months after that, Tony rolled out his Science and Learning branches, avenues for his engineering marvels and a place for all of the tutorials between the groups to go. With his marriage to Pepper Potts came the Information sector since she ran one of the largest Internet news outlets in America. Since Science and News and Learning were such different animals to the original branch of ‘Art of War,’ Defense and Entertainment grew out of the sub-company and by the beginning of last year, adding in History, they joined what became SHIELD.

Videos were required to fit a primary and secondary channel. Tempo-Tossed fell under Entertainment and History. Arrow-Batics and KnifePointe were Defense and Entertainment. Bruce’s “Your Brain on Yoga” was a scientific look at meditation and fell into Science and Information. And when Tony guest starred, it fell under Entertainment too.  

Tony may have been the money, but a man named Nick Fury ran the thing. He was amazing with his no-nonsense attitude yet love of dry humor, his eye-patch and leather duster that perfectly hid clipboards and weapons alike. Natasha was first to admit that she saw him as something of a father figure.

Nat put on her dress, a fitted purple number that she got just to drive Clint crazy. She paired it with some simple black flats, finding that heels aggravated her ankle too much these days.

“Ready?” she asked after her hair and makeup were done, Clint’s crooked tie fixed, and Lucky fed and asleep next to Liho, the stray cat Clint insisted become their second pet.

“Almost,” he replied. He dug out a small box from his pocket and handed it to her.

“What’s this?”

“You’re Valentine’s Day present.”

She frowned. They had agreed that the dinner was their gift to one another this year.

“Just open it, Tasha.”

She reluctantly slit the tape with her nail and took off the lid. Inside was a scrap of paper that read: Tu-Tu-Torials.

“Wha…”

He grabbed her hand. “I know you’ve been talking about retiring KnifePointe for something that doesn’t bother your ankle as much and that you’ve been kicking around the idea of ballet lesson vids again. So I did some digging.” He squeezed her hand. “I bought it back for you, Nat.”

“Clint,” she breathed.

“It’s yours again.”

She flung her arms around him, pulling him close and not letting go. “Thank you.”

He kissed her hair, her cheek, her lips. She kissed him back, full of joy and love and hope.

“You’re welcome, Tash.”

She kissed him again. It grew deeper, hands going to each other, touching. Breath coming out quicker, hot.

And maybe they ran fashionably late to the party. But if the thumbs-up from Tony was anything to go by, they were pretty sure he didn’t mind.


End file.
